


Man about Town

by BoldAsBrass



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Canon-Typical Violence, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yassen Gregorovich Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21598414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoldAsBrass/pseuds/BoldAsBrass
Summary: It was meant to be a routine mission: infiltrate; eliminate; evacuate. In, out and done.Then Alex Rider shows up.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 23
Kudos: 170





	1. Chapter 1

The training session has been running for almost three hours now. The title of the course is _Creative Problem Solving_ and it is being led by a man named Tony. Tony has a beard, pointed shoes and twinkly eyes. Tony also has a seemingly limitless fund of irritating sayings and, in Yassen’s considered opinion, an IQ of around about room temperature. There are twelve people attending the session: four men and eight women. At present they are sitting in a semi-circle in front of a flipchart. Like the rest of the attendees, Yassen has a sticky label stuck to his shirt. On it is neatly printed:

_My name is: Pawel!_

_I am from: Warsaw!_

_My favourite food is: Pizza!_

Needless to say, none of these three facts is true.

Tony is currently interrogating Anne, who has been foolish enough to laugh at one of his jokes. Anne is a little slow on the uptake: the rest of the group have long since learned that staying quiet is the better option. “That’s great, Anne!” Tony is saying earnestly, “but could you be a bit more pacific?”

Yassen examines the flip chart stand. It has three metal legs. It would be the work of seconds to rip one of them off and use it to beat Tony to death. That would be a creative way of solving at least one of his problems. But there are another eleven people sitting in the room and someone is bound to object.

Anne looks flustered. Right now, Anne would probably be quite pleased if Yassen beat Tony to death. “I guess, I’d use my blue hat?” she says.

“Spotty dog!” says Tony. He writes BLUE HAT on the flipchart in uneven capitals and for good measure illustrates it with a picture of a hat.

Yassen exchanges a glance with the woman sitting next to him. Her name is Trudy, she is from Penge and, according to her sticker, her favourite food is roast dinner. Yassen is not sure that counts as a food, it is more of a cooking method in his view, but he doesn’t have a problem with Trudy. He doubts that she has chosen to be here. In fact, out of all of the group, Yassen is probably the only one who has. He had chosen the company specifically and booked on to the session himself.

“It means good,” Trudy says out of the side of her mouth, interpreting his bafflement correctly.

Yassen nods. While they have been watching Anne flounder, the minute hand on the clock above the door has crept towards 12:15. Only quarter of an hour until they break for lunch. On cue, his phone beeps. “Excuse me, please,” he says, taking it from his pocket. “It’s my daughter’s nursery.”

Tony gives him a double thumbs up. Yassen has already mentioned this might happen. He picks up the rucksack from beside his chair and steps outside of the seminar room. Later, the police will ask why no one had thought to query the size of his bag. But a lot of people commute to work by bike these days and carry a change of clothes with them. Of course, if anyone had chanced to pick up the rucksack then they would have been very surprised by its weight. But there has been no need for anyone to do that, and Yassen would have swiftly intercepted if they had tried.

Once in the corridor, he slips the phone into his back pocket and walks swiftly towards the elevators. Now is the time-critical part of his plan. If the interception fails, three months of careful preparation will have been wasted. Worse, he will have to return to the training room and complete the rest of the day.

As it happens, he is only just in time. The catering assistant is already wheeling a trolley down the corridor towards the seminar room. Yassen identifies her easily by her uniform, a black and white checked skull cap and a long white tunic. The catering company like their staff to dress like chefs. It is a complete fabrication. The sandwiches and salads are made in a large factory near Worksop. The company just collects and delivers them. But it is a fabrication which has its uses. He stands politely to one side as she wheels towards him and gives her a faint smile. A friendly acknowledgement, nothing inappropriate. She is young, in her early twenties at most. Perhaps in her first year out of college. Her name badge says Marta. Yassen thinks she is either Czech or Polish.

As she passes, he slips his hand into his pocket and grasps a small plastic syringe. The contents are not blood. They are made mostly of syrup and red food colouring, simple supermarket ingredients, but sufficient to fool a non-expert. He waits until she wheels past then depresses the plunger sending a jet of red dye shooting down the bottom of her white tunic, her legs and onto the floor. The colour wicks across the cheap fabric in seconds, the droplets blooming like bright flowers.

“Miss,” he calls after her. “Excuse me, Miss?” As she turns to face him, he gives an embarrassed grimace. “There is blood on your clothes.”

“What?” She tugs the tunic around to look at its back, then stares horrified at the red droplets scattered on the floor around her shoes. “No,” she says. “But it’s not- Oh my God.”

Fortunately, the washrooms are only at the end of the hallway. She rushes inside, mortified, trolley forgotten. It is not a very gallant piece of subterfuge, Yassen concedes as he wheels it down the hallway towards the elevators. But perhaps later, when Marta hears what has happened to the Board of Directors, she will realise that it could have been worse.

He steps into the men’s washroom and takes a white tunic from his rucksack. It had not been difficult to obtain the right uniform. The catering agency employs mostly Eastern European staff, pays them minimum wage, and expects them to buy their own workwear. The recruitment consultant had been very willing to tell him the name of the website when he called, probably because she receives a hefty commission from its sales. There is a name badge already pinned to the tunic’s left shoulder. It reads ‘Pawel’ only because the symmetry amuses him. No one will read what the name badge says. Just as no one will notice that Yassen’s trousers are wool rather than polyester mix. They will see a member of the catering company pushing a trolley laden with boxes of salads, sandwiches and catering flasks down the corridor, and think no more about it.

Carefully, he places the skull cap onto his head. His pale blond hair is his most distinctive feature. With it covered, it will take some days before the police connect Pawel, who had to leave early to collect his sick daughter, with the events on the top floor. And even then, there will be some uncertainty about whether it was truly the same man.

Transformation complete, he leaves the washroom, sliding his rucksack onto the bottom tier of the trolley before continuing towards the elevators. A key card and code are needed to access them: a security measure implemented since the building is occupied by multiple businesses. Yassen is unconcerned about that. He presses the call button and waits a few seconds. It is almost lunch time; someone will be along soon. Sure enough, a tall man wearing a turban leaves and locks a nearby office, then cocks his head at Yassen inquiringly.

Yassen smiles apologetically. “Would you mind swiping me through? It’s my first time here. I got out on the wrong floor.”

“Easy to do,” the man says, “where are you going?”

“Twenty-three,” Yassen replies.

The man takes a key card from the holder around his neck, swipes it and enters a code. The lift doors slide open smoothly and with a nod of thanks, Yassen wheels inside. When the dust from today has settled, all staff in the building will receive security refresher training to remind them why it is a good idea not to do this. Perhaps Tony will run it, although it will probably be better if he doesn’t.

Yassen uses the time it takes to reach the top floor to make the necessary adjustments to the sandwiches. In the past, the twenty-third floor had been a subsidised staff canteen, with a balcony giving a panoramic view over the city, and its own kitchens and chefs. But real estate is expensive. The canteen had been made into a Boardroom. The catering is ordered in, and staff are expected to eat their sandwiches at their desks. Yassen has been reading the company’s Glass Door reviews. It is amazing what people will post online. In the past, learning this level of detail would have required buttering up one of the directors’ PAs. A chance meeting in a sandwich shop. A few flirty conversations. Drinks. Dinner. Maybe a foot rub. Maybe more. Now, with a few clicks of a mouse he can find out all this and more from the comfort of his hotel room. It is just as well since no one goes on dates anymore either; they hook up on Tinder instead.

The top floor is a paean to impersonal luxury and the inequalities of twenty-first century capitalism: all plush carpets, deep chairs and shiny wood furnishings, very different to the laminate, formica and hot desking of the floors below. A lone man sits behind a U-shaped reception desk. He is reading something on his computer and barely looks up as Yassen enters. A nameplate beside his computer says that his name is “Allan.”

Allan is a red-faced man in his late fifties. He looks as though he started his working life on the shop floor, will be finishing it behind a reception desk and is not at all happy about his change in circumstances. Yassen is glad not to have to butter him up. Allan does not look like he would enjoy being buttered; or at least, not by Yassen.

“You’re early,” he grunts. “Lunch was ordered for twelve forty-five.”

Some people are never happy, Yassen reflects. Had lunch been late, a formal complaint would have been lodged and the catering assistant sanctioned. “Traffic was better than expected,” he says. Through the glass panels of the Boardroom doors he can make out a long oval table. No more than eight people are sitting around it. The food on the trolley will cater for thirteen. He picks out a box of sandwiches and passes it over with an ingratiating duck of his head. “With compliments. Part of our new range.”

Allan doesn’t smile, but he grunts in a slightly more forgiving fashion as he opens the box. “You can go through and set up, as long as you’re quiet.”

“Spotty dog,” Yassen murmurs and wheels the trolley into the Boardroom with silent efficiency. It is furnished in a similarly luxurious style to the reception area: sleek leather chairs, tasteful paintings, a huge LCD screen. Sliding glass doors give a bird's eye view of London and lead out onto the balcony.

The meeting is almost over. The Board are discussing Any Other Business and plans for an office refurbishment. Yassen sets out the boxes of sandwiches on a side table then stations himself beside it. Agency staff do not usually stay to serve food, but the directors don’t think to question the change in procedure. They are wealthy and successful people, and they accept it as their due. If they had been less interested in colour swatches and more interested in the world around them then they might have noticed, through the glass panels of the Boardroom doors, Allan abandoning his station and bolting towards the Executive washrooms. But they don’t. Why would they pay any attention to something like that?

With the arrival of lunch, the discussion winds up. Yassen pours tea, pours coffee, guides towards gluten free options and murmurs apologies that there is no hot food. He does not have to apologise for long. The Finance Director is first to succumb. She is a petite woman in her early fifties, smartly turned out in a blue shift dress and contrasting accessories. She is picking unenthusiastically through a chicken salad wrap when her face turns chalky white and without warning she vomits into her coral pink handbag.

“Sandra?” the Chairman says. “Are you all right?”

Before he can continue his stomach gives a loud gurgling growl and a terrible stench fills the air. There is a horrified pause as the rest of the Board stare at him, then without speaking he leaves the room.

“Somebody call a first aider,” the FD mumbles. Sweat is beading on her upper lip and she is swaying on her feet.

“I will do it right away,” Yassen assures her. He passes her a wastepaper bin and guides her towards the door. Her colleagues follow in her wake, uttering low cries of distress.

The Company Secretary is the last to leave. “What’s happening?” he asks Yassen miserably as he leans against the doorjamb on unsteady legs.

“Norovirus,” says Yassen. “There’s a lot of it about.” It isn’t and there isn’t, but people will grasp hold of any explanation in a crisis, and often it is better to direct them towards an answer than risk them stumblng upon the truth for themselves.

In under a minute, the Boardroom is empty. It will take another half hour before any of its former occupants has recovered sufficiently to think about calling for help. Yassen wedges the door closed with a chair, retrieves his rucksack and walks out onto the balcony. The view is quite spectacular. It is an unusually clear day. On the one side, he can see the Thames and beyond it the four chimneys of Battersea Power Station, on the other a glimpse of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. But he has not gone to all this trouble to admire the view. His attention is focussed upon the ugly glass and steel tower block over the road. ‘BAIR’ is written across it, in gold letters three storeys high. These are the offices of Edward ‘Teddy’ Bair, well known celebrity, entrepreneur and reality television star. Founder of Bairfaced beauty; Bair body gyms and Bairfoot shoes. Less well known for his recent involvement in three A-list divorces and an unfolding pensions scandal with links to organised crime. Yassen is not sure which of the injured parties has found it necessary to call upon his expertise, but he is not bothered about their identity as long as their money is good.

Teddy Bair has a corner office on the twenty-first floor of his building, with floor to ceiling windows which look out across central London. It is featured quite often in his television shows. Mr Bair’s security consultants did not think to recommend to him that he install bullet proof glass into his windows. Why would they? The risk is very small. It would take someone standing exactly where Yassen is standing; someone with a high-power rifle and scope; someone who is an excellent shot, for there to be any danger at all.

Unfortunately, today is not Mr Bair’s lucky day.

Yassen kneels and unpacks three items from his rucksack. The first is a handgun, which he tucks into his waistband. The second is a cable launcher with a folding grappling hook which he places carefully by his right side. The third is a case containing an M96 Windrunner, one of the few sniper rifles designed to be broken down and reassembled on a regular basis, and Yassen’s personal favourite since it takes under thirty seconds to deploy.

Working silently, he assembles the parts then lines up the shot, adjusting the scope for wind, distance and angle. Teddy Bair Skypes every weekday between twelve thirty and one with the head of his New York Office. Today is no exception. Yassen peers through the telescopic sight. And there he is, Teddy Bair, sitting at his desk in his signature checked jacket, gesturing towards a laptop screen. The resolution at this distance is crystal clear. So clear, Yassen can make out the time on the gold iPhone which sits on the desk beside the computer. Twelve forty-three.

He moves the cross-hairs into the base of Bair’s neck, a fraction high to allow for bullet drop, then relaxes and waits, breathing evenly. Some snipers like to take beta blockers to smooth out any small muscle tremors, but at this range it is not really necessary and it is preferable not to become reliant on such props. As the clocks of London begin to chime the quarter hour, Yassen gently squeezes the trigger. The bells are not loud enough to muffle the sudden sharp crack, but they are sufficient to disguise its point of origin. The window glass crazes and Bair slumps forward onto his keyboard. A woman rushes into view, looking around bewildered, not understanding what has happened. Death has come from above, but she has no idea from where.

Crouching behind the balcony wall, Yassen disassembles the rifle swiftly and stows it back into its case. Then he picks up the cable launcher and the rucksack and follows the balcony to its easternmost end where it overlooks the London Central Metropole hotel. It is a very nice hotel, with its courtyard garden, swimming pool and three restaurants. One of the few hotels in London with a rooftop helipad. From his vantage point two storeys higher, Yassen can see there is a light two-seater helicopter sitting on it now. It waits on a raised circular platform in the centre of the roof, surrounded by low railings and accessed by a single flight of stairs.

He takes careful aim with the cable launcher and braces himself against the balcony wall. It kicks much harder than the rifle, shooting the grappling hook across the street to land with a clatter on the helipad. Yassen pulls it across the concrete, like a man playing a fish, until the flukes catch against a railing stanchion and it holds. He tugs experimentally then pulls the line tight, securing the standing end to the balcony guardrail with a bowline. The wire angles downwards, so thin it is almost impossible to see but more than strong enough to take his weight. Preparations complete, he takes a small zipline pulley from his rucksack and locks it over the line, then hoists the pack onto his back and checks about for anything he has forgotten.

At that moment the Boardroom doors burst open, the bracing chair flying aside as if made of balsa wood. A young man stands in the doorway. He is wearing a white chef’s tunic and a checked skull cap. Yassen can see a catering trolley standing in the reception behind him. He suspects it holds a far more elaborate selection of dishes than his own poor offering. The catering assistant himself, however, is slightly less polished. He has unruly fair hair which is starting to escape from its covering and if you looked closely at his face you might start to wonder if he is a little too young to be doing this job. But then, no one ever looks closely at the catering staff. They are too busy thinking about lunch.

The young man looks about the Boardroom. When he sees Yassen crouching on the balcony wall, his eyes widen. “You?” he says with a mixture of surprise and mistrust. “I should have guessed.”

“Hello, Alex,” says Yassen politely.

Alex takes in the empty table, the overturned chairs, the sheaves of papers fluttering gently in the breeze. “Where is everyone? What have you done?”

“You’re late,” Yassen says. “Lunch was at twelve forty-five.”

It is as good an exit line as any, and so he exits, taking hold of the pulley handles and launching himself out across London.


	2. Chapter 2

He lands neatly, drawing up his knees to his chest so that his feet hit the concrete side of the helipad first, absorbing the force of his impact. Back on solid ground, he strips off his tunic and skull cap, then makes his way up the single flight of stairs to the helicopter. He has already stowed away his rucksack and is running through the pre-flight checks when his preparations are interrupted by a high-pitched whine, a thump and a muffled grunt.

With an inward sigh, Yassen walks to the edge of the helipad and leans over the rail. Sure enough, on the rooftop below him Alex Rider is rolling to his feet. Parts of a leather belt lie scattered across the asphalt. He has used it to slide down the wire, Yassen realises and clicks his tongue in disapproval. It is an outrageously dangerous thing to do. The kind of stunt that only an adolescent with a still developing frontal cortex would think to pull. Ten out of ten for creative problem solving. Minus one hundred out of ten for health and safety.

Alex stares up at him defiantly, his skull cap dipping rakishly over one eye. He must be - Yassen tots up his own age, then takes away nineteen - seventeen now. Just entering into the first full lustrous flush of adulthood and acne. He has shot up since their last meeting but is still in the process of filling out, his long limbs giving him a coltish, slightly gawky look.

“Did you want something?” Yassen asks as he descends the stairs. There is a Browning 9mm semi-automatic pistol pressing against his spine but he doesn’t reach for it. There is no point in drawing a gun unless you are prepared to shoot. And there is no point shooting unless you are prepared to kill. And since Yassen has been unable, on three occasions now, to kill Alex Rider, he saves them both the embarrassment of pretending that he might.

“Yeah,” Alex says. His voice is deeper than Yassen remembers it, but for all his newfound gruffness he keeps a careful three metres between them, backing away as Yassen approaches.

“Which was?” he probes when no further clarification is forthcoming.

Alex looks him up and down. His mouth quirks. He appears to be experiencing an internal struggle. “Is your favourite food really pizza?” he says at last.

He removes the sticky label from his shirt, more irked than his expression reveals. “No. Was that all?”

Alex recollects himself. “No, I want to know what your deal is with the Featherstone Corporation.”

Yassen cocks his head. The name rings a bell, but he can't recollect at present who they might be. “The who?”

“The Board!” Alex snaps. “The eight people you’ve just killed!” 

“I haven’t killed them,” he says with a trace of injured professional pride. If he had intended to kill them, they would be dead, not soiling themselves in the Executive washrooms. “They are temporarily inconvenienced, is all.”

“Then why…?” Alex looks at Yassen, then glances over his shoulder, looks back at Yassen, then takes a longer look back at the Bair building with its one opaque windowpane on the twenty-first floor. When his gaze eventually returns to Yassen, his expression has shifted from outraged to perplexed. “Have you just shot Teddy Bair?”

That name Yassen does recognise. “Did you like him?”

“Well.” Alex looks nonplussed. “I don’t know. He was all right on _Stars Go Dancing_.”

Yassen shrugs. The vote had been rigged. “And what did _you_ want with the Featherstone Corporation?”

A shutter comes down behind Alex’s eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”

Oh, official business then? Yassen files that titbit of information away for future use. “Today was probably not the best day,” he observes mildly.

“You can say that again,” Alex mutters. He pulls off his skull cap and crams it into his pocket. “Three months of planning,” he adds with a venomous glare.

Despite himself, Yassen experences a flicker of fellow feeling. It is irritating when that happens. “Do you want a ride?” he asks, nodding towards the helicopter.

Alex stares at him as if he has grown two heads. “No.”

“Suit yourself.” He waits to see if there is to be any further conversation forthcoming, but Alex seems content to glare at him from beneath his unruly tangle of hair. With a final shrug, Yassen turns and makes his way back up the stairs.

“Wait!” Released from his self-imposed silence, Alex follows at a safe distance. “Why would I want a ride?”

Yassen glances over his shoulder, letting his eyelashes dip thoughtfully. Just because there has been no recent need for him to exercise his powers of persuasion, does not mean he has forgotten how. “Oh, no reason,” he says but when he lifts his eyelashes, his eyes tell a different story, making promises full of dark sins.

Alex gawps wordlessly. He may be young, but he is not stupid. He knows when someone is trying to butter him up. “You killed my uncle!” he manages at last. 

This again? Yassen tries not to sigh. He makes no pretence of being a good man. He has killed a great many people in his time, some more deserving of death than others. But Ian Rider had known the hazards of his job, surely? He had been an active field agent, killed by a rival operative while on assignment. Just as he would have killed Yassen, given half the chance. It is tragic, of course, but not entirely unforeseeable. If he had truly had his orphan nephew's best interests at heart then he should have considered becoming an accountant. Or a member of the clergy. Or at least requested to stay on desk duty until Alex turned eighteen. But if Alex has not yet come to that conclusion by himself then he will not appreciate Yassen being the one to point it out to him. “You must hate me very badly,” he observes quietly instead.

Strangely, it does not appear to be the answer that Alex was hoping to hear. His face grows tight with a mixture of anger and other, less defined, emotions. Poor Alex Rider. Seventeen years old and a torrent of seething hormones raging through his blood. It is a confusing stage of life. Full of strange urges and succulent, steamy dreams. Difficult enough to navigate at the best of times without some softly-spoken Russian casting him lingering, sidelong looks.

All of which is amusing, of course, but if Alex does not want to get into the helicopter then Yassen has other places he needs to be. “Goodbye then,” he says, and continues up the stairs.

With a set expression, Alex follows. It is like having a puppy, Yassen reflects as he ascends. Very sharp teeth. A great deal of biting. Will not do as he is asked but will not leave you alone. If it weren't for the fact they were cute, no one would ever put up with them. 

“Now what?” he asks as he climbs into the pilot’s seat. Time is ticking on. The clocks of London are already striking one and sirens are beginning to wail through the streets below.

“I’m not going to let you get away with this, Gregorovich,” Alex shouts over the growing din, with all the confidence of his advanced years. “Not this time.”

“Well, you’re not going to stop me,” Yassen points out. “Bair is already dead.”

It is the wrong thing to say. A muscle jumps in Alex’s cheek and his frown deepens into a scowl. “Then it’s time you faced justice.”

Justice, Yassen reflects, as he straps himself into his harness. Justice is a complicated matter. Rarely black and white despite what the tabloids may claim. Which is why the legal system does not often put seventeen-year olds in charge of meting it out. He stows the Browning in a side pocket and rests his hands on the steering column, readying himself for take off. “If you’re not planning to come with me, then you need to leave the helipad.”

Alex raises his chin and Yassen realises with a sense of inevitability that he’s planning to wait for the helicopter to take off before grabbing on to the landing gear. It’s exactly the kind of hair-brained scheme that someone who has just ziplined over an eighty-metre drop on a leather belt would come up with and, irritatingly, he might even manage it. Although, only for a short time. The helicopter is a Robinson R22, a lightweight two-seater craft with a carrying capacity of 176 kilograms, when those kilograms are sitting nicely balanced in the cabin. It is not going to fly very far with seventy kilograms of gangly adolescent hanging from one of the skids. Alex will either fall twenty storeys to his death, or helicopter will be pulled to the roof and explode in a ball of flames. Or both, Yassen supposes. Both is also a possibility.

In truth, he is not enamoured by any of these outcomes. The question is what to do instead. He considers Alex’s defiant expression for a few moments longer before letting his gaze slip over his left shoulder. “And where have you been?” he asks.

“Oh, _please_.” Alex scoffs. “Pretending there’s someone behind me? You don't think I'm going to fall for that?”

“Of course not,” says Yassen. “You’re far too experienced an operative.”

For some reason the words make Alex blush hotly and before he can think of a riposte a gruff voice calls from the rooftop below. “Sorry, Pawel, I was talking to air traffic control. Don’t know how he managed to get up here. Gary’s on the main stairwell.”

Alex’s face falls comically. Really, Yassen wonders, with a trace of impatience, what did he expect? This is central London. Did Alex honestly think Yassen would leave several hundred thousand pound’s worth of helicopter sitting on a rooftop unattended? If so, he needs to go on a critical thinking course: develop his powers of logical reasoning. Yassen is not a poor man, but he is not made of money. 

“What do you want me to do with him?” the voice continues. Heavy footsteps ascend the stairs and a man appears. He is dressed in black combats and a wind-breaker. He is burly and running a little to fat, but his bearing shouts ex-military, and the gun in his hand confirms it.

Yassen considers. There are a number of options available to him here, some more appealing than others: bundling Alex into the helicopter; throwing him off the roof; kissing his sulky mouth; giving him his telephone number. In the end he uses his blue hat and thinks about his long-term goals. Where does he want to be in five year’s time? What would he like to be doing? Well, that is quite an easy question to answer. Tony would be proud of him. Yassen knows exactly what he would like to be doing. “Speak to the Police,” he says. “He’s playing truant. A boy of his age should not be at work.”

Alex opens his mouth to argue, but he is already being steered down the stairs and out of harm’s way. It is for the best, Yassen thinks as he puts on his headset. He is still a schoolboy; too green for Yassen’s tastes. He needs another few years to grow out of his anger and into his legs. It’s like catching a little fish. You admire their bright eyes and their shiny scales and then you throw them back into the water to become a big strong fish. He starts up the engine and engages the rotors. There will be other days. Other rooftops. Other helicopters. And then they will see how Alex Rider takes to being buttered up. The thought raises all kinds of interesting possibilities, and he is smiling as he lifts off the rooftop and into the bright blue spring sky.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who has longed to escape soft skills training.


End file.
